


Johnson's Girl Friday

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Drabble, F/M, Pastiche, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 05:53:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12881550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: Daisy and Coulson as Raymond Chandler characters.





	Johnson's Girl Friday

It was Friday evening, that hour where L.A. stops feeling like a punch in the gut and starts feeling like a drunk’s unwelcome embrace. Coming back to Hollywood and Cahuenga

I was coming back to my office after a couple of drinks at Florian’s, following a lead that went nowhere. Work was as scarce at always, but the flies in my office seemed better company than the bums trying to break into my van all night. 

As soon as I made my floor I knew something was off. The door to the small front room I used as reception was a little askew, and step by step I could confirm my suspicions; there was someone in my office. A Friday night punch up still seemed like a better alternative to going home so I opened the door, not caring too much if I was heard by the intruder.

In the dark I could make the shape of a man, sitting at my chair, his back to me, looking out of the window. The neon was writing on my walls and my clothes in two seconds intervals. He must have noticed my presence. Silence. That’s when I reached my hand to my hip, feeling for my piece. I don’t use guns if I can help it. Normally I can’t help it. Something about my winning personality.

“Is this Miss Johnson? The detective?” the voice called, like the man could tell I was about to draw.

I immediately relaxed. The opposite of a punch in the gut then, this Friday evening. I switched the office lights on. The man closes his eyes for a moment. He must have been waiting for me for a while. 

Phil Coulson. He was wearing one of his grey suits, chosen with a certain amount of taste, but still on a LAPD’s check. A shame, he could be handsome. Not a bad haircut, and unlike his buddies he had the good sense not to wear strong cologne. The city’s last honest cop, you could call him. He was my informant. Or I was his. We never agreed on that point. I met him when we were both investigating a Nazi ring back in 1943.

“I didn’t see Lola parked outside,” I told him.

“Left her a couple of blocks away. I imagined you’d want to avoid the talking,” he replied.

He stood up from my chair, producing his notebook.

“You’ve got a case for me?”

“There was a robbery downtown,” he started, opening the notebook, all business. Too much for a Friday night. “They arrested some hop-head, I think the detective just grabbed the first guy he saw around but Chief told me to leave it alone. I think you can help.”

All business, Phil Coulson. I walked to him, grabbing the guy by the waist and pulling him for a kiss.

“You didn’t say hello,” I chastised him, imitating a movie star pout. “Have you forgotten your manners?”

“No, but…” Phil Coulson remarked, eyeing my hand on his hip. “You seem to have forgotten yours.”

He got closer, reaching under my jacket, his fingers running the length of my suspender. He kissed me on the mouth for payback. That’s right, Phil Coulson was my gal.


End file.
